The way a tree makes wood from the air

By the way,

I don't know what I came here for.

I don't know why I don't cry

anymore.

I don't know how

leaps of faith should begin.

But I think that you

might be

medicine.

I thought love was

something that you found.

You picked up some pieces

and you carried them

around.

And when you had enough,

you set them down, and

built a shelter so

you wouldn't drown,

and prayed

for good weather.

I thought love was what you lost.

Something that hurt you,

put you so high up on a cross.

Something you paid for,

sometimes too much for,

at too high a cost.

And I thought love was,

something that you forget.

Memories you traded for

whatever you found next.

Something that ached like

a red red sunset.

Something that pulled the breath,

oh, right out your chest.

And by the way,

I didn't know I was a prayer.

Until the leaves fell

all around us

and I was bare.

And we made some love,

out of nothing,

Out of what we had to spare.

The way a tree

makes

wood

from the air.